Don't Say Goodbye
by LonelyAngel22
Summary: John receives some late night phone calls from Sherlock; set between Sign of Three and His Last Vow, possibly why Sherlock ends up in a crack house. Rated for language to be safe.


**A/N: Set between Sign of Three and His Last Vow. Not a songfic, but inspired by a song. May possibly explain how Sherlock ended up in a crack house "for a case"...**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing you recognise and make no profit.**

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It was 2:17am when John was woken by the harsh buzzing of his phone, set to 'silent' mode, vibrating against the bedside table. Bleary-eyed he reached over and saw Sherlock's name flashing on the screen. He hit the answer button at the same time as clambering out of bed, ducking through the bedroom door and into the darkened sitting room to avoid waking Mary.

"Sherlock?" he smothered a yawn, voice thick with sleep. "What's wrong?"

Near silence greeted him, just the faint muffled breathing on the other end of the line.

"Sherlock?" John repeated into the phone, wide awake now.

"My apologies, John," the familiar voice came a moment later, forced and tense. "I didn't mean to wake you."

"Its fine," the doctor sighed, settling down into an armchair, briefly wishing it was his old chair at 221B; far more comfortable. "Why are you calling at this hour? Not that I don't want you to call; just a bit hard to talk right now."

"I… To be honest I hadn't realised the time," Sherlock said softly, baritone slightly distorted through the tinny speakers of the phone. "I'll go now."

"No, Sherlock, don't," John urged in a whisper, frowning at the tone of his friend's voice. He sounded uncertain, vulnerable, so unlike the Sherlock that John knew. "You sound upset. Is everything okay?"

"Fine, John," Sherlock sighed. "Ignore me; everything's fine."

"Don't lie to me!" John snapped, wincing at the echo of his voice in the silent darkened flat. "Sorry, I've got to whisper. Can't be too loud; Mary's in the next room and I'd rather not wake her. She needs the sleep. Morning sickness has only just started to pass so she's exhausted."

"I see." Sherlock's voice was strained, much like the following silence. "I'll just… I'll let you get back to bed. I have things to do anyway."

John huffed a soft humourless laugh. "Like what?"

"Investigating a case."

The pang of jealousy surprised John. He knew Sherlock would be busy without him; things had changed. These days the doctor went to work at the clinic, came home to have dinner with his wife, and went to bed, only to repeat the next day. Of course Sherlock would continue on the way he always had, without John. There was no reason for him to be jealous that the detective could carry on without him.

"Interesting case?" he queried, not really caring about the details but wanting to prolong the conversation, stilted as it was.

"Average." Another pause; when had their conversations become so awkward? "Well, goodnight, John."

John's eyelids fluttered closed as he felt another pang.

"It's really good to hear your voice, Sherlock," he said quietly. He missed the sound of his name coming from Sherlock's lips, spoken with such a commanding arrogance, knowing that John would follow him to the ends of the Earth without question or hesitation. "Goodnight."

The line was already dead, John's farewell unheard, lingering in the empty shadows. He sat on the creaky armchair, wistfully remembering the contentment of 221B, the way he had felt truly at home there. Here, in the flat he shared with his wife, he felt like a guest.

He sat in the darkness for hours, mind wandering aimlessly, before eventually dragging himself back to bed sometime around four. Mary twitched beside him as he climbed beneath the covers but continued sleeping, completely oblivious to the turmoil of her husband.

It was not quite a fortnight later when John was once again awoken by the muted buzzing of his phone. This time it was 2:43am and he was unsurprised to see the name that flashed upon the screen. Once again slipping silently into the sitting room John answered the call, this time choosing the sofa rather than the armchair.

"Hi," he greeted, voice hushed.

"Did I wake you again?" Sherlock queried. "You don't sound as sleepy as last time."

John's lips quirked in a small smile. "I wasn't awake, but I was… well, I've been hoping you'd call again."

"You could always call me," the detective pointed out, voice guarded. John nodded, despite being alone in the darkness.

"I know."

Silence took hold but this time it wasn't quite as terribly uncomfortable as before.

"I…" Sherlock cleared his throat, sounding more awkward than John had ever heard him before. "I fell asleep earlier while going through some notes. I… I had a dream. You were there, making tea, chastising me for leaving my mess all over the place."

The pause that followed was filled with the unspoken accusations, longing, betrayal, need… John felt a burning urge to punch something, break something, watch the world around him shatter. It was all so utterly fucked up.

He wanted to blame Sherlock, wanted desperately to blame him for ruining everything. He walked out, destroyed their friendship, their life together, disappeared for two fucking years, leaving John to fall apart. Alone.

Then, as soon as he had started to pull himself back together, make a new life without Sherlock, with a woman who supported and accepted him, the bastard just waltzed back in, expecting everything to return to how it was before! John wanted to be so fucking angry but he was too tired for that anymore. He was done with the anger; now it was just emptiness.

"It's funny that you're calling me tonight," he said, not feeling that it was very funny at all. "I've dreamt of you too. Several times. Countless times, actually, over the time we've known each other."

Again, leaving the unspoken words to linger in the air. He heard Sherlock draw a shuddering breath.

"Come back," the detective whispered and John grit his teeth against the flood of emotion.

He remembered what Sherlock had said to him once before; '_Alone is what I have. Alone protects me._' Funny how things change. Funny how people, friendships, change you. Funny how the two of them had simultaneously managed to heal each other with their friendship, then completely break each other with it.

"I can't come back," John replied, hating himself as he spoke the words. "You know I can't."

And then Sherlock spoke the one single word that John thought he would never hear from the detective's lips, spoken with such resignation, as though he knew it was pointless but he had to try anyway.

"_Please_."

Hearing that word made John weak, chest throbbing in agony, eyes clenched shut against the burning behind his lids. Hating himself more than he ever dreamed possible, John hit the button that ended the call.

"…_and I never want to say goodbye…"_


End file.
